


Kneel

by Zayrastriel



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Blowjobs, F/M, Is that a thing, Kneeling Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:22:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22963063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: The Master sends everyone out of the Exhibition before his exchange with the Doctor. Things go a little differently.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 124





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm taking prompts for this pairing now because I have a lot of feelings and need to write them down. Please do suggest anything you think might be interesting!

“Let them go,” the Doctor says calmly as she steps forward. As calmly as she can when her hearts are beating so fast she can almost hear them. “Then you can have me.”

“I’ve got you anyway,” the Master retorts; but she can practically see him thinking, see him calculating. What he’s weighing up, the Doctor has no idea. Whatever it is, though, it has him raising his arm into the air.

“It’s a good thing I’m feeling generous. All of you, _out_ ,” he barks.

For a minute, no one moves.

“ _OUT_!” he screams, and all of a sudden _everyone_ is moving, frantically rushing for the doors. Within a few minutes, it’s just the Master and her, still standing in the centre of the room. His gaze hasn’t left hers, the whole time.

The Doctor breaks the silence first. “What do you want?”

He’s silent, for a long moment. Just looks at her, face unreadable.

“Kneel,” he says finally, the word rolling slowly off his tongue. _Kneel_.

Rassilon if it doesn’t make her want to laugh or cry (or both).

“Pardon?” She’s stalling, and he knows it – his smirk is wide, only the smallest bit away from a full grin.

“Kneel,” he says, “or they all die.”

“Too bad you’ve already let them all go.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “How long do you think it’ll take for me to find more? Just outside that door is your precious London, full of so many killable humans. And if you try to stall again, Doctor,” he continues, just as she opens her mouth to – well, stall (it’s a little sad how well he knows her) – “I’ll find something else to entertain me.” The hand holding his tissue compressor taps against his thigh, and she watches it warily.

“When I kill them, Doctor,” he adds, “it gives me a little buzz. Right here, in the hearts.” He covers his left heart with his hand, pats it lightly. “So don’t tempt me. _Kneel_.”

She’s about to tell him to shove off, because honestly – but then she sees the look in his eyes, and… _oh._

Dread and anticipation unfurl and entwine in her gut as she slowly bends, one knee then the other, unable to resist a roll of her eyes as she does so. He ignores that, thankfully – when he’s this trigger-happy, it’s hard to know just what will set him off.

“Good girl,” he praises her – and it has exactly the same effect as being called a _good boy_ used to have. Because… _Rassilon_ , she’s repressed just how much him calling her that makes her shiver.

She tries to hide her reaction with another roll of her eyes. This time, it gets her a smirk that reads _oh, I know_.

“Now,” he says. “Call me by my name.”

 _I like it when you use my name_ , he’d said once, a long time ago. 

But she’d been on the phone, many miles away. She hadn’t been on her knees, staring up as he towered over her, a sick parody of all the times they used to do this back before everything fell apart.

Like she’s going to call him _that_ from this position.

She begins to answer, but he cuts her off just as the first syllable – _Ko_ , is all she gets out – begins to leave her mouth. “You know better than that, love. Call me by my _name_.” _The name I chose, my_ real _name_ , she hears like a weight behind the word. _The name that tore us apart_.

 _Prick_ , she thinks, projects it at him hard enough that even a human would hear it. That gets her another smirk, but with a slight crease in his forehead. He didn’t like that at _all_.

“I don’t need a reason, Doctor,” he says with a meaningful glance at his pocket. “I’d love one, in fact. _Say it_.”

“…Master,” she says quietly.

And oh, it’s guiltily almost worth it to see the ecstasy on his face – to know that even here, defenceless and alone, she still has enough power over him for just that one word to disarm him.

Of course, it’s a sense of power that fades when he gathers himself enough to respond, “I beg your pardon?”

She rolls her eyes again. It seems to have lost any kind of significance by now. “Master,” she says, more loudly. He has the nerve to make a show of cocking his head, like the word was the barest whisper on the wind.

“What was that, love?”

This time, it’s she who is disarmed. Because for all this face – for all that he left her to die on that plane, that he’s tried to ruin and break and kill her over and over again, that word rings as true and clear as it ever did.

“Master,” she says one last time, and this time she sounds just as sincere.

One hand comes up to cover his mouth, and for one terrifying moment he looks as though he might _cry_. Then he’s blinking whatever emotion that was away, staring fixedly at her as she looks up at him. “I like it when you use my name,” he whispers.

 _You chose it_ , she doesn’t say.

 _I’d say it forever if it’d get you to stop_.

“I know,” she says instead, and doesn’t flinch when he steps closer. Resists the urge to shy away or lean into the hand that slowly reaches out to caress the side of her head, before fingers sink into her scalp. Not pulling, not pushing – just holding. It’s a comforting point of stability, bizarrely – because his eyes are wild, desperately searching hers for something she can’t quite place.

“I’m torn,” the Master tells her, tone hushed. “On the one hand – when I arrange for your death, I expect you to stay dead.” His fingers tighten slightly, clenching just a bit in her hair. “On the other hand, though…I do _love_ it when you kneel for me.”

On the one hand, she should possibly be concerned about the potential for him to make good on the death threats. On the other hand…

It’s not like she’s always hated kneeling for him.

“Well,” she says. Looks up at him from under her lashes. Flicks out her tongue to lick her lips, slowly – and his eyes flicker down, flare slightly more open.

Lust looks just the same on Time Lords as it does on humans.

“Which one is it going to be?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using this pairing to get back into writing smut and am so confused as to whether it's actually working, eep.

The Master is still angry, oh yes, he is. He’s burning with rage, a fire tearing up his hearts because _how he’d wanted her dead_.

But Rassilon knows that the Doctor has always looked beautiful on her knees. And this body is easy on the eyes in a way her last one wasn’t. Youthful and smooth instead of all hard lines and angles, with silky-soft hair for him to sink his fingers into.

One of the few disadvantages of being a brilliant madman and constantly trying to kill his closest friend and erstwhile lover – he doesn’t get to see her like this as much as he would like ( _always_ , is what he’d like.)

And having the her like this when she’s a woman…it would almost might have been worth keeping the human audience. Nothing embarrasses the Doctor quite like feeling inferior in front of her pets, with their gender constructs and ludicrous approaches to sexual roles.

But – she’s on her knees, looking up at him – and it’s suddenly very hard to think about humiliation and human preoccupations (what a _ludicrous_ species!) when those warm eyes are fixed on him, sparkling with enthusiasm. Her hands rise slowly, to rest lightly on the belt of his trousers. “Well?” she asks, as though he were ever going to say no to _this_.

(Well, maybe. To spite her, just maybe. But it’s been just as long for him as it has for her, even longer since he’s had her mouth on his cock, and for the moment he _wants_.)

“If you insist,” the Master says, aiming for bored but touching on breathless instead. He’d be more annoyed about it, but the Doctor is unbuckling his belt, undoing the buttons with more eagerness than grace. It’s more appealing than it should be.

Everything is pulled down with clumsy haste, a rush of cool air hitting his skin. For a moment they’re both shocked into stillness. New bodies never get old, after all; and though he can’t quite see, he just _knows_ that she’s been absorbing every inch of his since he revealed who he was. 

It gives him time to briefly ponder, looking down at the crown of her head as she stares at his body, if perhaps she’s finally the teasing kind this time around –

And then she’s swallowing down his cock, and _that’s_ the kind of answer the Master likes.

Her mouth is smaller and her lips softer than he remembers, the last time they did this. But she’s still wet and warm as always, diving into the task with all the enthusiasm and wholeheartedness with which she does everything. Her tongue swirls around the head, earning her a surprised jolt; he’s more sensitive there than it was the last time he had one.

“First time?” she has the nerve to ask as she pulls off of his cock, self-satisfied smirk. The Master doesn’t answer except with a hand to the base of her neck, digging again into her hair.

“Get back to work,” he says shortly; but there’s no way to hide the raggedness of his breath, the lust that leaves his voice ragged. She has the decency to not comment on it, but he can practically feel the smile around him as she dives back in. He keeps the hand in her hair, but doesn’t give into the urge to use it to fuck her mouth. As enjoyable as that is, he can admit to himself (only to himself) that he prefers her eagerly giving, practically choking herself on his cock to fit it all into her mouth.

Still, he keeps his hand still; a point of stability among the sparks of sensation and pleasure, the fire slowly but steadily building in his groin. Tugs on it once, deliberately, to hear the Doctor moan around his cock; and that’s what tips him over the edge.

She swallows everything down, and keeps her mouth on him to catch the remnants (tongue still tracing, teasing) till he’s pulling her away and shoving her onto her back.

“Your fucking suspenders,” he growls as he unbuttons her trousers She gets the hint, thankfully – it would have been rude to _actually_ break her outfit - and gets them unbuckled just in time for him to hoist her up slightly and pull her trousers down.

“I like them,” the Doctor begins to protest, but seems about as uncommitted to arguing as he is to responding. How he feels now must be how she felt, surely; new skin, so pale and soft and _foreign_. Her hairs are paler and thinner than she’s used to, groin covered in a soft layer that hides absolutely nothing.

Foreign, the Master thinks, but _always the same_ , as he runs a finger up between her legs to find her inner thighs just a little bit sticky.

“Always making such a mess, love,” he whispers. Her cock used to get like this too, smearing precum against the Master’s fingertips so quickly and readily. Betrayed by her body, and sometimes so wonderfully _ashamed_.

This Doctor doesn’t seem to have a scrap of shame in her, though. Not when her eyes flutter open and she manages to muster up a taunting,

“And what are you going to do about it?”

* * *

 _Make more of a mess_ , is what the answer ends up being, as he alternates soft steady strokes of his thumb against her clit with two fingers driving deep within her.

He keeps kissing her – can’t _stop_ , though he does want to know how her wetness will feel against his mouth. But he kisses her as she shudders with orgasm, tastes his cum lingering on her lips and tongue. Breaks away to press his mouth to the side of her neck and _bite_. Feels the tremble of her slender body as his teeth sink in, and presses his body harder against hers to feel every jolt, every over sensitised twitch till he relents and moves his hand away to rest on the bare skin of her upper thigh.

“Good girl,” he says, rubbing his thumb against her skin in the closest thing to reassurance he can manage.

She doesn’t respond, just quivers slightly, and for a moment – a brief, barely-there whisper of a moment – the noise in his head quietens down.

* * *

It feels like a year or five minutes when the Doctor finally breaks their long silence.

“Alright,” she says, still just a little bit breathless. “Well, this was nice.”

“Yes,” he concedes, if only because she’d swallowed him down without hesitation and perhaps because it had been a few multitudes better than _nice_. Also, because he’s enjoying this – this post-coital truce, the closest to _cuddling_ he could ever come.

“Well,” she continues, and he feels her begin to shift beneath him, “I’d best be off then.”

The warm fuzzy afterglow of orgasm dissolves instantly. “‘Be off’?” the Master repeats scornfully, swallowing down the sickening thrum of _no, no, you’re not leaving me again_ , “I think you’re forgetting just who has the power here.”

To his surprise, she seems to be fighting back a grin. She’s stopped moving underneath him, but something about that grin isn’t soothing his sudden agitation.

“Right, yeah,” the Doctor says. And oh. It’s _that_ tone. “Your tissue compression thing. Yeah.”

“Yes,” he echoes warily, because surely not…but as he reaches into his pocket, because it seems she needs another reminder of just who’s –

And of course it isn’t there. With _that_ tone, he knows exactly where it is.

Her feet strike out, hitting him in the stomach and shoving him off of her. “You really should take better care of your things,” she gasps as she clambers to her feet, looking down at him where he lies sprawled and winded and _very_ angry. Her clothes are askew, hands trembling as one rearranges her trousers and the other clings tight to _his_ device. She’s got a triumphant grin on her face, eyes sparkling.

But the Doctor’s lips are still swollen, shiny with spit and traces of his semen. She’s clinging on till her fingers shake, but she’s not pointing his own device at him.

(And on the side of her neck, his mark begins to bloom.)

The rage quiets, just a little, as he sears that image into his memory to enjoy later.

“Don’t you remember, Doctor?” he asks as she begins to back away from him. “I always take good care of what’s mine.” And she freezes still, as the Master projects a memory at her as strongly as he can –

 _The Valiant, a millennium or more ago. His silent wife, his resentful staff. And the Doctor, always the Doctor, finally_ his _, trapped in a cage at the heart of a decimated human race._

_Perfection, every night he deigned to reverse the aging procedure and remind both of them just what their places were._

But she doesn’t stop for long – starts to run towards the door, like she always does. “You won’t get far without a TARDIS, Doctor!” he snarls after her. _And even with one, I will find you. Always._

**Author's Note:**

> Second chapter is probably going to be mostly smut. Will probably also be written while I'm tipsy xoxo


End file.
